Kissing

It is twenty years, today, since my first ‘real’ kiss. I was sixteen. I made sweet sixteen. Not through a lack of wishing I hadn’t though. The opportunity just didn’t arise before. I would never remember the exact date as a rule but for one thing: the green beer. We were out, at a bar in The Big Smoke, with the parents of friends. I realised this morning that it was twenty years, because… well… I’m 36. And good at maths.

Yes, you didn’t read me wrong, I did say green beer, we were celebrating St Patrick’s Day. . Served in 500 ml plastic beer tankards. Ugh. I am thankful to it, though. I was a shy teenager you see, having had little to do with boys. No brothers and an education at a prissy Girl’s School will do that to you. The (green) beer helped ‘bring me out of my shell’, allowing me to snog away happily, in front of the friend’s parents (cringe), a boy with a disturbing nickname.

He was a year younger than me (shock, horror… 15!) and shorter than me (not hard, being 5”11’) and I can’t actually remember if it was fun or not. We wrote to each other a couple of times after but it was not meant to be. It was sweet, innocent, and the beginning of a wonderful relationship of me and kissing. I love it. It took me until university to properly get the hang of it but when I did… there was no stopping me. I’ve experienced it all (well, some of it, I hope not really all, yet) – the washing machine, the inhibited, the wild, the innocent, the devilish, the unsolicited, the unwelcome, the gentle, the prohibited, the secret, the voracious, the ones that lead nowhere and the ones that lead everywhere…

Twenty years ago. Sheesh. When did I get so old?

Wizards and wildness

I am wild. I kissed a wizard on Saturday. Okay, so he may not really be a wizard, more of a magician. I did ask him if he knew Harry Potter (admit it, the teen wizard is hot, it’d be cool to know him, especially now he’s not so teen anymore and likes taking his clothes off on stage). He looked at me strangely and vehemently denied knowing any real wizards. I’m certain that’s part of his cover though. As a wizard, I wouldn’t think you’d go about willy-nilly telling girls you’ve just met in dark clubs that you’re a real wizard – have you seen some of those baddies that go after Harry?

But let me start at the beginning – it was The Pond’s birthday on Saturday so we had a braai/party thing on Saturday afternoon which stretched into the evening. It was great – lots of lovely people, champagne, happiness. At about eleven the last stragglers left and I went to bed, very sedate and unwild. But then my phone rang – one of my favourite people in the world, SJ, saying come to Dark Dingy Club (DDC). I waivered. Then I, from The Big Smoke phoned, and I told him my dilemma. He urged me to go. I now realise he is a bad influence.

So I (wildly) got back out of bed and went to DDC. It was fun. And wild. I will stick to just the wizard bit of the wild though. How did I know the boy there was a wizard, I hear you asking… Was he wearing a cloak with stars on? Nope. Did I watch him fly in on his broomstick? Nope. Did he have a wand tucked into his jean’s pocket? Nope. (And get your minds out of the gutter – you especially Clive, I can hear you sniggering.) I’ll tell you what it was…

He kept making a five rand coin appear from behind my ear. I kid you not. It was hysterical. My sister’s comment when I told her was: “Did you keep the R5 coins?” No, I didn’t. I’m wild, not a prostitute! It really was funny, and he kept us all amused for ages. Who would’ve thought that magic tricks (and, admittedly, some tequila - that stuff is the devil's juice) could keep a bunch of thirty-somethings entranced for, well, let’s just say a while.

The other reason I know he is really a wizard – he wiped my mind clear at the end of the evening so I don’t remember his name. I escaped (wildly) at about 3am to go to bed (properly this time) and woke up not remembering his name. This, of course, had nothing to do with the devil's juice and the fact that it was very loud in the DDC, and hard to hear. I did, however, need to rest on Sunday. A lot. I can only be wild in very short bursts these days. Age. Sigh.

And I swear I saw him leave just after I did, burst out of his jeans and t-shirt, revealing a red one-suit with cloak, put his arm in the air, and fly off into the night sky to save the world. Oh dear, am I confusing my super-heroes and magical wizards?

And... one more thing... Which part of Knight-in-Shining-Armour is the universe not getting? I'm not really looking for a wizard (or magician for that matter).

The Kissing Chronicles, Part 3

I woke this morning from a dream in which I was with The One I Loved. The boy from so many years ago who I'm not sure I ever stopped loving. We all have one I think. I tried my hardest to close my eyes and go back to sleep, back into that place but to no avail. It got me thinking, though, that I have neglected my Kissing Chronicles. I thought quite hard about it too, and realised that I've been struggling with writing fodder because, honestly, I am still reticent about writing honestly about my now, so writing from before and leading to now is the perfect way to do it. To write about things that, while they mattered hugely at the time, don't matter too much now, being in the past and all.

So, we'd been through The First Kiss in Part 1 and The First Boyfriend-of-Sorts in Part 2 and, oh look, the young Shiny has now ended her illustrious school career at The All Girl's School, being spat out the other end supposedly "A Lady" with a good knowledge of Maths, Science and English and a poor knowledge of the social skills involved in dealing with creatures of the opposite sex. This chronickling I fear may be long and boring but I'm practicing writing, that's the point of this whole bloggy thing.

Oh, wait, I forgot one fumbling which was quite a funny one really (shit... are they all? I'm beginning to wonder...) He was a beautiful boy called Simon, who I met in a nightclub in Plett while there for my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary. My Botswana cousins were down and it was a joyous family reunion filled with lovely things. Anyway, one night the cousins all went out and there we came across this (again younger by a year) boy, who was very obviously filled with the usual 16-year-old hormone rush. Let's just say I can't remember too much wooing went on - some arbitrary conversation about where we went to school I think it was -while he ever-so-surreptitiously put his sweaty little paw on my leg.

We landed up in a dark room somewhere next to the club (what was I thinking? Oh, the folly of youth) where we feverishly set about kissing, until... he pushed my head toward his crotch. Good grief! My still-innocent brain was horrified. After his third attempt at this, my neck was actually getting quite strained from trying to push against his ever-so-persistant hand on top of it, so I cut my losses, got up and left the poor thing to sort himself out. Oh, how glad I am not to have to deal with 16-year old boys anymore. He came sidling up to me a bit later and asked if I'd come again tomorrow. But I was busy.

So, yes, I finished school and joined my sister in the city beneath the mountain for my holidays. She was at university there (at the time I was destined for there too, but things changed, as they do) and, at the time, had a lovely German boyfriend who's father made clocks. He had a German friend, M, who was 23, played in a heavy metal band (I can't remember if he was the singer or the bass player, but I think it was base) and was doing his Masters in Chemistry. To my 17-year old mind, he was a very clever Rock God. With a car. And he was interested.

We all traipsed off to The Playground, a fabulous, dingy club in the centre of town which no longer exists, and he, to my sister's horror and full-on fury when we returned, lured me out for ' a walk in The Company Gardens'. Now, we're talking 1am, in the city - I have done some very stupid things and been extremely lucky! It was beautiful though, being mid-Summer. We ambled through the rose gardens and then he turned, pulled me close and kissed me. Oh my god. It was like I was kissing one of those vacuum-pack machines they offer on TV, except that those hadn't been invented then. Seriously, I thought the guy was going to swallow me whole, or detach my tongue from it's roots. Luckily, very soon after, a security guard came ambling along and advised us that it was pretty stupid place to be at that time of night. Actually, he said to M: "I'd take my lady elsewhere if I were you, if you don't want her mugged or worse."

Being 17 though, and of minimal experience with these things, I thought perhaps it was normal, so I saw him for a bit and tried the kissing a couple more times. It was worth pushing through, you see, because his band was in the paper... And we even went to watch them practice in some third-storey club in Long Street. My mind wandered to a life on the road, travelling in a huge bus-made-into-a-luxurious-home. But it was not meant to be. I decided that I was way too fond of my tongue to allow the poor thing to be ripped out. Oh, and I left to join my parents on holiday. And didn't go back to varsity there. I think we wrote to each other for a bit, but I (and my tongue especially) were relieved about the distance.

Okay, that was Part 3. I need to do Real Work.

I wonder if I should've been cleverer, and invented the vaccum-packing machine after the whole experience?